by Vikki Patis
This street is very nice, full of large, detached houses with long driveways and porches and clean windows glistening in the sun. I stand at the edge of the driveway, the bunch of flowers suddenly looking cheap and wilted next to the vibrant rosebush in the front garden. I’ll just leave it on the doorstep, I decide, marching up the drive and putting the bouquet down before turning and walking quickly away. A noise behind me makes me look back to find a woman in the doorway, an empty milk bottle in her hand. She has short, straight hair that looks like it’s been professionally styled, but her skin is pale with purple marks beneath her eyes. Izzy’s mum.
‘Oh,’ Caitlyn says, finding me standing like a lemon on her property. ‘Hello?’
I curse inwardly. ‘I, uh, I just brought some flowers.’ I gesture at the bouquet on the step beneath her. ‘For Izzy. I was so sorry to hear that, you know…’ I trail off, awkward.
The woman frowns slightly. ‘Thank you. And you are?’
I swallow. ‘Olivia. Liv. I’m–’
‘Seb’s nan,’ she says, recognition dawning. ‘Hi. I haven’t seen you since…’ She thinks for a moment. ‘Isabelle’s seventh birthday. He threw up after the cake.’
I’m surprised she remembers. ‘That’s right. He has coeliac disease, though we didn’t know it at the time. Gluten,’ I add when her face clouds over. ‘He can’t eat gluten.’
‘Yes, I remember now. He told me a few weeks ago, when he was here for dinner.’ I nod, remembering Seb worrying about being able to eat safely at her house. I wonder suddenly why I haven’t reached out to Caitlyn before now. Seb and Izzy have been together for a few months, should I have made contact with Izzy’s mother? Should we have communicated, gotten to know each other better over coffee? It had never crossed my mind to get involved in Seb’s relationship, but now I wonder if I should have.
‘He kept apologising,’ Caitlyn says, tilting her head as if remembering. ‘As if he can help it. And he brought dessert. Gluten-free profiteroles. They were delicious.’
‘That sounds like Seb,’ I say, lifting the second bouquet and turning to go. ‘Anyway, I must–’
‘How is he? Seb?’
‘Fine, he’s fine. I’d really better be off, I’m–’
‘Has he said anything? About the photo?’ Her question stops me in my tracks.
I turn back slowly, my mind racing. I shake my head. ‘He doesn’t know anything about it.’
‘But she must have taken it for him.’ It isn’t a question. Caitlyn takes a step towards me, her eyes hardening.
I feel a flush of indignation. ‘She didn’t. He would never… He had nothing to do with it, honestly. It’s awful, and I’m sorry, but–’
‘Why would you be sorry?’ she demands. ‘If Seb had nothing to do with it?’ I can see the mother rising up in her, a lioness roaring to protect her young.
‘I’ve really got to go,’ I say, panic washing over me. This was a stupid idea, coming here. What was I thinking? ‘I’m expected. Give Izzy my best!’ And I walk away, almost jogging until I reach the end of the street and turn the corner, out of view, before I slow down.
‘You, Liv, are an idiot,’ I mutter to myself as I walk towards the church and Paige’s grave. I wonder if I’ve made things worse now. Shit. What have I done?
The flowers on Paige’s grave are brown and wilted, the plastic wrapping covered in water. I throw the old ones into the bin and rest the new bouquet gently against the gravestone. ‘Hello, love,’ I whisper, crouching and ignoring the ache in my back. I’m getting too old, I think, then remember that my daughter will never get any older. No matter how much time passes, this realisation never gets any easier. As I’ve watched her son grow, from small, cheeky toddler to bigger, even cheekier teenager, I’m often hit with the realisation that she isn’t here to see it. I don’t believe in the afterlife, can’t bring myself to believe in any god who would have stolen my daughter from me in such a horrific way, but a tiny part of me still hopes she’s looking down from somewhere, watching her son make his way through the world.
‘You’d be so proud of him,’ I say, brushing some dirt from the headstone. ‘He’s working so hard for his exams. He’ll be off to university before we know it, perhaps even to Cambridge. Wouldn’t that be something?’ I smile to myself. Seb will be the first person in our family to make it to university. I’d always wanted that for Paige, had looked forward to seeing her settled in her student halls, coming back for the long summer and Christmas breaks full of stories and new things she’d learned. Still, she’d managed to sit her A-levels before she gave birth, so she achieved more than I did.
‘Things aren’t all a bed of roses, mind,’ I say, unable to stop myself. I realise that I haven’t spoken to anyone about the situation with Izzy, or my fears about what will happen to Seb. Who could I talk to about it? ‘I’m a bit out of my depth to be honest. Nothing compared to what that poor girl is going through, though, I suppose.’ I see Izzy’s mother again, the raw desperation in her face as she realised who I was, what she thought I could give her. ‘I do hope she pulls through all right. Teenage years can be so difficult, but things get better as you get older. More life experience, I suppose.’
I remember Paige as a teenager, fourteen or fifteen, slamming her bedroom door when I said she couldn’t go out unless she tidied her bedroom. ‘You could be a right little madam,’ I say, smiling. ‘Your tantrums as a teenager far outweighed your tantrums as a toddler. Seb is an angel in comparison.’ And he is, an angel. He’s helpful, kind, thoughtful. He works hard at school, rarely gives me any lip, always pulls his weight around the house. He went through a phase of ‘keeping up with the Joneses’, as I called it, always wanting the latest gadgets and trainers, but the thing with Seb is that he will listen when you take the time to explain things to him. One day I sat him down and wrote out our finances, showing how our outgoings compared with my piddly earnings at the petrol station and the child benefit I receive for him.
‘So you see, love,’ I said gently, as he did the calculations in his head, ‘there just isn’t enough money left over for new trainers this month.’ He’d nodded, his face serious as understanding dawned.
‘I’ll help,’ he said, brightening suddenly. And he did. He spent that summer, and every summer since, washing cars, feeding the neighbour’s cats and one particularly vicious hamster, mowing lawns, painting fence panels. He made himself little posters and dropped them through letterboxes, and I put one up in the petrol station, ignoring Sean’s frown of disapproval. He made enough money that first summer to buy himself the trainers he wanted and then some, but, instead, he dropped it into an old jar and handed it to me.
‘For you, Nan,’ he said, smiling sheepishly, ‘for looking after me. I did the sums, and by my calculation you’ve spent hundreds on me over the years. I reckon I should start contributing.’
My eyes glisten with tears as I remember his face as I hugged him, taking the money out of the jar and counting out the money for his trainers. ‘I’ll keep the rest for you,’ I said, placing it on a shelf in the kitchen. ‘For university. It’ll be your takeaway fund. For when it’s your round at the student union.’
I’ve been adding to it ever since, a few pounds here and there. Seb knows where it is, but as far as I’m aware he’s never taken from it, not even when his friends got brand-new phones and headphones and god knows whatever else. I’ve managed to take on more shifts at the petrol station as he’s got older and can be left to fend for himself a bit more, and though money is tight, it’s no longer a struggle. No, money is the least of my worries now, what with my cantankerous mother and the police investigation looming over us.
‘Oh, Paige,’ I say, sighing. ‘What am I going to do?’
13
Caitlyn
She is home.
I hold on to Isabelle’s arm as Alicia unlocks the front door and helps her inside, but it is me who needs support really. Me who is struggling to put one foot in front of the other. Six steps from the c
ar, up two steps, then we are inside, the door closed behind us, shutting the world out.
Isabelle heads straight for the stairs, and I open my mouth to call out, to tell her no, she cannot go upstairs, I want her where I can see her, but Alicia silences me with a look. She follows her sister up the stairs while I make hot chocolate, squirting cream on top and digging out a packet of marshmallows that have seen better days. I glance at the flowers Seb’s grandmother left, still in their plastic wrapping, the petals squashed against the side of the sink, and feel a flash of regret for having a go at her. It isn’t her fault. I must dig out a vase for the flowers, maybe take them up to Isabelle. It will do her good to know people are thinking of her.
I carry the mugs up, knocking on Isabelle’s door with my foot and pushing it open. ‘Here we are,’ I say brightly, crossing the room and setting the mugs down on the desk. Her laptop is closed, and I’m suddenly seized by the desire to grab it, to take it downstairs and comb through every file, every photo, every message, to see who has been harassing her. Why didn’t it occur to me while Isabelle was in hospital? I realise just how useless I have been, how utterly I am failing as a mother.
‘Thanks, Mum,’ Alicia says from her place on the floor, her back against the bed. Isabelle is sitting cross-legged on top of the bed, the duvet bunched around her like a fort. ‘We’re going to watch some films.’ This is code for leave us alone. But I hover in the doorway, words bubbling up inside me, clogging my throat, fighting to get out. I stare at Isabelle, but she is looking down at her lap, fingers playing with a loose thread on one of her bandages.
‘All right,’ I say finally, shoving the words down. ‘I’ll go and make something for lunch.’
I stand in the middle of the kitchen, the floor cold beneath my socked feet, my mind buzzing. My eyes settle on the leaflets we brought home from the hospital, and I am suddenly soaked in rage. It flares through me, flames lighting up my skin as I march over to the island and grab them, screwing them up and throwing them across the room with a silent scream. Is this it? Is this all the help Isabelle is going to get?
I dig my phone out of my back pocket and find the number for the therapist we used to see. I remember dragging Isabelle to the first appointment, a few weeks after her first suicide attempt last year. She sat there mute the entire time, letting me fill the fifty minutes with inane chatter, my hands trembling in my lap. After a while, she started going on her own, and she seemed to be making progress. Evenings and weekends were calmer, with fewer arguments and markedly less tension. We even went out a few times, for coffee or to the cinema or for lunch in Isabelle’s favourite Italian restaurant, Alicia driving back from Cambridge to join us. And now it has happened again.
I close my eyes, rubbing at them with the heels of my hands. How did we get here? What must have been going through Isabelle’s mind to make her take that photo? And now what? A police investigation, the whole school knowing what has happened. So many eyes on my daughter’s body, seeing her at her most vulnerable.
I had no intention of involving the police, but by the time I thought to inform the school of Isabelle’s absence on Monday, they had already known about the photo.
‘The police have been informed,’ the headteacher told me. ‘A student reported the image to her form tutor. Since it involved a minor, our hands were tied.’ He cleared his throat. ‘We were not aware of Isabelle’s, uh, actions, of course. We wish her the best.’
Actions. Incident. Attention. Such everyday words, so simple, yet so foreign. How I long for words from the before time. Breakfast in bed. Long weekends. Have you brought an umbrella? and What do you want to watch? and Have you done your homework? October evenings on the sofa wrapped in blankets, pizza eaten straight from the box, ice-cream tubs with two spoons. And even further back, the girls dressed in yellow wellies and blue raincoats, their hair in pigtails, jeans splashed in mud. Paint all over the dining table, sticky handprints on the windows, an empty biscuit wrapper lying on the floor. The days when it was just me and the girls, after their father, Anthony, left and before Michael came. The sleepless nights worrying about money, the mad dash in the mornings to get them to school and arrive at the office by nine o’clock. The after-school clubs, the missed nativity plays and unironed school uniforms. I was always tired, my limbs aching, weighed down by an extreme fatigue that I know now was due to fibromyalgia, the chronic illness I have had to learn to live with.
And then, a couple of years after Anthony left, my parents died, suddenly, one after the other, leaving behind enough money to pay off the rest of the mortgage and finish the extension we’d started, and I could work part-time instead. My parents had moved to Australia when I was twenty and had only been back to visit a handful of times in the years since, making do with photos of their grandchildren and the occasional, often stilted phone call. We were not close, had very little in common, and I’d escaped my childhood as soon as I could, moving away for university and sending the odd letter back, returning only for a few days at Christmas.
I wonder if it is my fault Isabelle has found herself on this dark path. With no grandparents, an absent father, no cousins or aunts or family friends. A mother who couldn’t get out of bed some days. Our life has become so insular, just us three until Michael appeared, when things started to get brighter, my illness carefully controlled by medication. And then Alicia left for university. Was that the catalyst? Losing her sister? I think back, trying to remember if Isabelle has ever talked about missing Alicia, beyond what would be expected, but my mind is blank, the events of the past few days too heavy, too overwhelming.
I stare at my phone, thumb hovering over the therapist’s number when it rings. Private number flashes up on the screen.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, Mrs Bennett?’
I swallow, knowing that this could only be about one thing. ‘Speaking.’
‘Hi, it’s PC Willis here from Hertfordshire Constabulary. Is now a good time to talk?’
14
Izzy
She doesn’t sleep.
She lies awake long after Alicia falls asleep, one arm flung across her face. She relishes the feeling of someone in bed beside her, the warmth of her sister’s body, her slow, steady breaths. She has felt so alone recently, cast adrift in the middle of a storm, her life raft shrinking bit by bit.
Alicia will be gone tomorrow, back to Cambridge and lectures and nights out. She will be back, Izzy knows, at some point in the coming months, but there is rarely a plan when it comes to her sister. She will simply turn up one day, a grin on her face, a bottle of wine hidden in her bag or a huge bag of sweets, full of Izzy’s favourites. And in the meantime they make do with voice notes and video calls and sharing memes on Facebook, and Izzy will pretend that it is enough.
She misses having friends, misses having more in her life than her mother and sister. She thinks back to last summer, before everything started to go wrong. A soft pillow beneath her head, blonde hair tangled up with hers, the taste of mint on her lips. A gasp, a giggle. And then she was cast out, cast in a role she wasn’t sure how to play.
Izzy stares up at the ceiling, watching the headlights from cars on the road below cast shadows across the room. She hasn’t spoken yet, not even to Alicia. She feels as if she may never speak again. If she doesn’t talk about it, then it won’t be real. If she doesn’t mention the photo, and the utter humiliation she felt when she saw it had been shared around the school, she can pretend that none of it happened. But her wrists itch beneath the bandages, and her throat is still sore, and she knows that she cannot pretend for much longer. It is bubbling away inside her, toxic fumes almost enough to choke her.
She will tell Alicia tomorrow, she thinks. When they wake up in the soft morning light, limbs entwined, Alicia’s hair and her strawberry shampoo tickling Izzy’s nose. She will pretend they are children again, hiding beneath the duvet, the air full of whispered secrets and giggles. Nothing bad ever happened to that little girl, when Alicia still c
alled her Siz and she believed in Father Christmas. Even when their dad left, walking out with one suitcase and without a backward glance at his two daughters, even when their mother fell into a deep depression, her illness taking over, Izzy still had her sister. She felt safe. Loved. Happy. Now she can’t remember the last time she felt any of those things.
Alicia shifts in her sleep, rolling over onto her side. She has always been a fidgeter, flinging her arms and legs out, forcing Izzy to the very edge of the bed. But she doesn’t mind. She is glad of the company, glad even of the elbow pressing into her side. It means she isn’t alone.
‘Tell me,’ Alicia says the next morning, and Izzy does, just as she had promised herself last night. She opens her mouth and, for the first time in days, words tumble out, her voice quiet and unsteady. She tells her sister about a boy, because, of course, it is always a boy, who she thought liked her.
‘Seb?’ Alicia asks, her face screwed up.
Izzy shakes her head. Not Seb. Seb isn’t that kind of boy, has never been like the rest of them. Staring, wanting, demanding. No, Seb had nothing to do with this. This was all Izzy, and her desperate need to be liked. Included. Validated.
